


Passing Impressions

by jdjunkie



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-13
Updated: 2010-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdjunkie/pseuds/jdjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is the eye-catching stranger at the airport?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Written to the pic prompt "Gigolo" at the JackDanielPromptfic comm at DW

Airports are full of people. Okay, stay with me here. If I’m being mistress of the obvious, know that there is a point to this.

Airports are full of people who tend to blur into this shifting, ever-moving homogenous mass. I mean, you know there are individual people within this tide of faces and luggage, but you never actually see them. You just acknowledge the ebb and flow of the waves of humanity, passing through, moving on, and rarely pay it any mind.

But sometimes, just sometimes, one person catches your eye and brings you up sharp and makes you realize that, hey, these are _actual _people. They have lives. They laugh and cry and puke and have sex. They’re not just seat reservations and passport numbers and “Chai tea, thanks.  Um, I’ll take a pack of the Ethiopia sidamo coffee, too.”

He comes through roughly every six or eight weeks. Not that I’m counting.

I have no idea where he flies in from, just that he orders the spicy tea for himself and picks up the coffee and then I lose him in the aforementioned faceless crowd of people.

I’m a very good barista. I serve hundreds of people every day, but I only ever remember a handful, and I only ever think in any great detail about this man.

Oh, before you get the wrong idea, I’m not on the lookout. I have a deliciously intense double espresso waiting for me at home, thanks.

But this guy ...

He’s tall, but not too tall. His face is boyish but not so much that it can’t be called handsome. Although boyishly handsome doesn’t quite fit.  His eyes are blue, and they would be pretty and sexy except there’s a world of ... something  ... in there that makes me think of sad things. Not that he’s miserable, because he isn’t. He just carries this private aura of other-worldliness around with him. Like some men carry a briefcase ... thoughtlessly. It’s a part of him.

He holds himself with an air of confidence, although sometimes, perhaps when he’s tried, his gait says otherwise. Oh, and he’s built, although not in an obvious way. His clothes fit where they touch. They look expensive. Today, for instance, he’s wearing a black shirt with at least five buttons open, revealing a toned, smooth chest. And the thing is, I think he’s wearing it slashed open that far because he’s warm, not because he wants to show off the skin. He is utterly oblivious to the effect he has on people. He has no idea that he draws the eye, the brain and various other parts of the anatomy in a way that few, _very_ few, people do.

I’ve seen people looking; men and women. It’s corny to say it, but I’m going to anyway, he draws attention like iron filings are drawn to a magnet.

And he doesn’t have the first clue. Which makes him even more intriguing.

I’ve made up two stories for him. Don’t laugh. I do that sometimes. It helps pass the time and helps calm me down when an ignorant customer fails to say please or thanks or worse still points and mumbles and more or less fails to acknowledge my existence. _Hey bozo, I’m here, I’m serving you and doing my best to be polite instead of telling you what I really think of you in the words of the latest wordsmith I’m grinding out a 5,000-word essay on in the small hours ..._

But I digress.

Story number one is based on what I see in his eyes:  I think he’s a wealthy widower. I think he had a wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime marriage to a beautiful, intelligent woman who stole his heart and soul forever. There’s a part of me thinks she died in childbirth. But maybe that would be just too angst-ridden. I think he’s given up on love and devotes himself to his work as a doctor. I think he’s working on a cure for whatever disease killed his wife, which blows the childbirth theory out of the water, I guess.  I think women throw themselves at him and their signals bounce off him unnoticed. I think he’s lonely but he doesn’t realize it. Oh, and I think he has a pretty wicked sense of humor, although, again, I have no real evidence. It just fits. He dresses the way he does because he can and because it hides the real him.

Story number two is based on his choice of clothing: The guy is some kind of gigolo. He dresses for all the women who pay him for his services. Or maybe one woman. An older, rich woman who wants the best and is prepared to pay for it. He flies in, does his job, flies out again, and goes back to a life that has tragedy writ large somewhere because otherwise he wouldn’t do the job he does.

I’m big on tragedy. This I know. Two contradictory stories. But, see, I think this guy _is _a mass of contradictions; mildy arrogant but deeply vulnerable; outwardly confident but internally shy and diffident.

All this from a few seconds of interaction over a coffee bar counter once every few weeks over a period of a year or so.

“Hi, I’ll have a chai tea, please.” He puts down his small overnight bag and smiles but it’s a distracted kind of smile and he’s looking around, as though someone should be here to meet him and isn’t.  His glasses are different. He usually wears squarer, more modern-looking frames. These are more old-fashioned, like maybe they’re a few eye prescriptions old. Perhaps they’re a spare pair. Or perhaps they’re his default when he wants to feel comfortable and more himself. He fishes in the inside pocket of his soft leather jacket for his wallet and seems to sniff appreciatively at a double espresso that’s waiting to be picked up on the counter.

“Sure I can’t get you a coffee instead?” I ask, and a small, wry smile plays on his lips. He has nice lips, by the way, full and inviting.

“Trying to cut down.”

I prepare his tea. “Doctors, eh?” I say, although I have no idea why. It’s just nice to engage him in conversation.

“Actually, constant nagging. Oh, I’ll take a pack of the ...

“Ethiopia sidamo.”

He looks up from sorting through the notes and those expressive eyebrows raise and his mouth forms an O of surprise. It’s almost unbearably cute and not terribly gigolo-ish. “Um. Yes. Thanks. You remembered.”

Oops. Busted. “Not too many people order tea but buy coffee.”

There’s that small smile again. “Well, there’s never any decent coffee in the house and I refuse to drink tea _all _the time.”

So ... doesn’t sound as though he’s here on business then. The gigolo option is looking less likely.

I reach for a packet from the shelf and place it next to the hot tea. “She prefers tea?” No idea why I asked that either. We’re not playing twenty questions here.

“No. He prefers coffee. Just too mean to invest in the good stuff.” Snarky but said with affection.

Okay. That’s a surprise. On both fronts. He’s not alone and he’s going home to a man. Looks like my putative best-selling novel about the life of the beautiful but tragic man who passes through the airport and my life, or the alternative version where he’s a highly-paid but still tragic gigolo, might just have hit the slush pile.

He hands over payment and I give him his change and he looks around again. Not anxious, just eager, excited almost, his eyes scanning the concourse. He puts the coffee pack in his overnight bag, picks it up and then picks up the tea.

“Thanks,” he says and turns away.

This time, I don’t lose him in the crowd. This time, I watch while he waits.

He doesn’t wait long.

 He takes small, slow steps towards the exit, which quickly become bigger, faster steps when he catches sight of someone. His shoulders relax, his whole body seems to follow their lead, and he holds the tea safely out of the way as he’s enveloped in a bear hug by a gray-haired guy whose eyes wince shut with a kind of intense delight as their bodies meld together amid the sea of passengers.

They press tightly, leather jacket to leather jacket, and there’s unconscious swaying going on. The relief that hug brings is tangible. It’s coming off them in waves.

It could just about pass as a “Hey buddy, it’s great to see you” hug, if you didn’t know any better.

But I do.

That’s a hug that says, “Hey, you’re here. Life starts again from this second. You feel good. I love you and miss this.”

Hey. Maybe I should ditch classical lit next year and try creative writing.

They pull back from the embrace, and the smile on gray-haired guy’s face would light up half of Washington. Can’t seem to take his eyes from his lover’s face. Lover ... yeah, that fits nicely. He reaches for the overnight bag and it’s handed over without discussion.

They set off through the crowd but gray-haired guy hasn’t stopped touching yet. He has a hand at the small of chai tea guy’s back and it stays there until they disappear from view.

I like both my imagined story for this guy who stands out from the crowd. But I like the real story better. Because I’m guessing it’s heading for a happy ending.

....

....

 “Hi, what can I get you?”


End file.
